


A Story About Science

by MaskedShipper



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Cecil Pines for Carlos Over the Radio, Cecil narrates, Community: nightvalecommunitykink, Dry Humping, Other, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Cecilos, Softcore Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 10:48:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16116836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskedShipper/pseuds/MaskedShipper
Summary: "Nerve impulses work far harder when novel stimuli are introduced. To soothe the body and allow it a chance to relax, familiarity would be a good, if temporary, remedy." He takes the seat he had abandoned only moments before, but he seems closer, so much closer, and places a hand on your thigh, at the hem of your shirt."Would you like to try and soothe your nerves with me?"orCecil weaves a tale on the radio; one that is about you, but also about a scientist named Carlos.





	A Story About Science

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty softcore, but rated 'E' just in case. The 'you' of this story has no mentioned gender so you can imagine Cecil is actually talking about _you_. Enjoy!
> 
> This is the original prompt: https://nightvalecommunitykink.dreamwidth.org/822.html?thread=2358#cmt2358

This is a story about you, which is truly delightful, you think, because you’ve always wondered what a story about you would sound like. Where would it start, if some master of words decided it was a tale worth telling? At your birth? No, your first accomplishment, maybe? The first words pulled from a babe’s lungs, first steps, your first piece of art, or your first spark of rebellion? Maybe your story would start before you were you at all: a chance, or perhaps not-chance, meeting of people that brought the idea of you, and then the physical you, to fruition. 

All beginnings are good beginnings if only because they all lead to the places they were meant, or not meant, to go. But this story starts when you meet a scientist named Carlos. 

You are not from Night Vale, and as such, find it fascinating in a way that leaves you breathless, the whole of your body taking in simple, mundane things with a sense of excitement, of newness, that you’d long since convinced yourself you didn’t need in your life. You experience looking at the starry void from your apartment with a dread that seems to titillate new senses your body previously seemed incapable of. The anticipation on the static crackling before each radio show is a taste on your lips. When it has been four days without an appearance from the sun, regardless of lack of clouds in the sky, you feel the sleepiness physically: a soft, velvety cocoon. It is everything you dared dream your life would be when you were younger, when you’d first realised you didn’t want to work a job you loved for fear of being trapped in that employment forever, that you sought things that were only ever touched upon in forbidden books marked ‘science fiction’ or ‘fantasy’ or ‘redacted’. 

Newness, while fulfilling and extraordinary, can be exhausting. You know this, and the man on the radio knows this, something _you_ know only because he says so on the broadcast you’re listening to right now. Hearing this is not alarming, only reassuring. It is nice to know that someone might understand what you’re feeling, even if they do not feel it themselves. 

You know where to go when the exceptional becomes tiring on your psyche. Already, your car is purring to life, the broadcaster’s voice soothing your nerves through the radio you cannot remember turning on, and you drive in the direction of what you once thought was too dull to spare a thought. 

The laboratories run by Carlos and his team of scientists come into view, and you hesitate before parking and getting out of the car. Here, your tale begins. This is where you meet the man you’d only heard of before, and perhaps glanced at in passing, though you did not know he would play such a role in your story.

“Hello,” you say, after a nervous knock, though no one has come to answer the steel door that keeps Night Vale from leaking in and meddling with the science inside. “I thought maybe… I know you’re not from here, and I thought maybe you could tell me about your research.” 

You do not remember where you are from. You hope that the person who answers the door remembers their own backstory and that, somehow, it might jog your memory. Newness is exciting, but tonight, when the dread of the void is not as charming, you long for something familiar. The warmth of a home that has slipped through your mind somehow, the knowledge of something other than what Night Vale has shown you. 

He is half-asleep when he opens the door – his lab coat crinkled as if he has gone to bed in it, and his hair is both perfect and perfectly dishevelled. He smiles, unsure but kind, worry at the edge of his gaze. “Are you alright?” he asks, because he is not of Night Vale and he always seems to ask this question before he asks about the weather or what you’re up to or if you’ve had your mandatory slice of pizza yet. It comforts you, and you let out a heavy breath you hadn’t known your lungs were keeping hostage. 

“I am, yes, I just…” There is nothing out of the ordinary following you because the black sedan with tinted windows that trailed you here made sure of that. Night Vale keeps its citizens safe, your tax dollars and compulsory volunteer work make sure of this, but somehow, tonight, the idea of the Sheriff’s Secret Police does not ease your thoughts. “Do you think I could come inside? You’re a scientist, right? I’d love to hear about science. About… science not from Night Vale.” 

He smiles brighter and you glimpse a row of teeth, straight and pearly white and not at all threatening like the teeth of some others here in this town.

“Anyone curious about science is welcome here.” He looks to the black sedan and raises a brow at the occupants there he cannot see but knows are watching, but no one comes out to join you at the door. He sighs, slightly disappointed. “So just us tonight, then. That’s alright, too.” Curiosity requires far too much paperwork for most citizens to bother with, after all. It doesn’t surprise you that the people in the car have far more important things to do with their time than all that form-filling. You are glad you have the Curiosity & Acceptable Range of Free Thought permit tucked in your wallet. 

The scientist locks the door behind you, a habit from a place that is not Night Vale, where there exists, it seems, an illusion of privacy and safety that is in your control instead of in the control of your elected government officials. There is a maze of machinery then, things you feel you might recognise if only you spent enough time trying to remember, liquids bubbling and machines buzzing and lights blinking. Room after room of Science® pass you, but your focus is on the swishing lab coat, on the backside hidden by comfortable and stylish material. It is only now, with the reminder that you are no longer alone, that you realise how lonely you have been up to this point. 

The scientific equipment thins until you are in a room of Not-Science, a little kitchenette with a fridge and table and chairs and large, open windows with distinct ragged breathing carried on the night breeze – you know, standard items for a room of this sort. There is also the broadcast, a low hum of a radio host’s voice, soothing and enveloping and unavoidable, though you do not see where the sound might be coming from. 

“You’re lonely, huh?” Carlos asks, which makes your stomach flop unpleasantly and causes your cheeks to begin to burn, but he shrugs apologetically, pointing to the ceiling. “That’s what the radio said, at least.” The radio host takes no offense to the glare aimed at the ceiling and meant for his words. “It’s okay,” he admits, when you take a seat and stare awkwardly at your shoes. “I know what that feels like.” 

For a man of science, you are surprised at how empathetic Carlos seems to be. He takes a seat beside you. There is a hand, then, gentle and careful, on your leg, innocent if that’s all you’ll let it be, his eyes, a dark, worried amber, asking if that’s alright. _Of course it is_ , you should say. _I wish you would take off your lab coat_ , you should add. _Might I run my fingers through your silky, luscious hair?_

Those words never leave you, of course, as you are far too sheepish for it has been far too long.

“I can take it off, sure,” the scientist says – to the utter delight of the radio broadcaster – and he chuckles, flattered and a little embarrassed, as he stands so he can pull it off his broad shoulders. 

You’re worried Carlos will get the wrong impression, will watch your throat constrict and eyes darken and think that this is why you sought him out in the dead of night. But he is sweet and understanding and the tug of his lips upward reflects that, reveals that he knows you came here for a shred of normalcy in a time where you cannot seem to grasp even an inkling of what normal used to be. Perhaps he searches for that, too. Perhaps, you think, it would be easier to find if he also shed the t-shirt and jogging pants he used as pyjamas. 

Or perhaps that’s just wishful thinking on the radio host’s part. 

"I really _didn't_ come here for that," you insist, in case he fails to believe the words on the radio – though, why would he? They have been infallible so far. 

"Nerve impulses work far harder when novel stimuli are introduced. To soothe the body and allow it a chance to relax, familiarity would be a good, if temporary, remedy." He takes the seat he had abandoned only moments before, but he seems closer, so much closer, and places a hand on your thigh, at the hem of your shirt. Perhaps, for all the curiosity and interest in his eyes, he means to make you a meal that once warmed your stomach and spirit alike, or play a game that would remind you of the joys of childhood. 

You are both not from Night Vale, but it is unlikely you are from the same place outside of it. The games you fail to remember from youth, the food you have forgotten to crave, would not be things he knows of. His hand slips under your shirt, and where he touches, your skin quivers.

"Would you like to try and soothe your nerves with me?" 

You can only nod, lips pressed together, mouth far too dry to produce a sound. 

Carlos' hand slips higher after your affirmation, gentle, soft fingers sliding up the side of you until the collar of your shirt keeps him from going further. His thumb, careful but sure, drags against your nipple. Another breath you've kept hostage escapes excitedly, eager to join the world and show the scientist your true feelings, but still you are reserved. Still, your eyes search him for something. Perhaps if you stare long enough, you will find judgement hiding somewhere, you think. In the crease at the edge of his eyes, at the grey – so very distinguished – at his temples. At the curve of his lips. He is patient while you look, eyes on yours, hand still but pressure still there on such a sensitive part of you, making your heart race so that you feel it pounding in your throat. 

You find no judgement, for Carlos is not that kind of man, and your shoulders relax. He smiles, and only then, only _now_ , he continues. 

His other hand has sought your skin in jealousy of the fingers already allowed there, and though there is still so little contact - fingers dragging against that nub that sends fire through your body, a gentle firmness at your hips, slipping into the waistband of your pants - you feel yourself writhe with need, arousal pumping through your blood and settling at your lips, your fingertips, between your legs. You reach for him and he lets you pull him closer, your hand curled at the back of his neck, tugging, uncertain but wanting, until your foreheads are pressed together and you can breathe him in - the scent of aftershave or cologne as intoxicating as his touch. You long to close the gap between you, to just barely brush your mouths together, just to see if he might taste as good as you imagine. Your tongue wets your lips in anticipation, your teeth worrying your bottom lip, but before you can muster the courage for a kiss, his own hands are pulling, far less uncertain than yours. Both his strong hands are at your hips, and you understand his meaning as he tugs. His hands are large, softer than you’d imagine, but sure of their strength.

You allow him to pull you into his lap. 

His hair smells far sweeter like this, with your nose buried against his temple, your breath a tremble on his skin, just as your thighs shiver at his touch. His hands roam and wander, unhurried by the gasps and whimpers you try to conceal with each exhale. It has been so long, and he stokes a fire within you, a flame that licks everywhere he deems worthy to touch, that pools between your legs until you’re desperate for more friction, for his hands to be merciful instead of methodical, until you grind against his lap and find his own arousal pressed against you. 

There is no concealing the moan ripped from your lungs. Even the ragged breathing at the window has gone quiet, so that your noises invade the room fully, so that even Carlos’ hitched breath is only a distant soundscape to the desperate noises he pulls from your lips. 

He guides you by pulling your waist, by arching up, and sets a pace that is far too slow to match your pulse or breathing or any of the desperate rhythms your body had succumbed to. You tug his shirt off, and though he seems a little distracted that it lays limp on the floor instead of neatly folded, his attention is brought back to you when you slide your hands against his chest, mapping hair and muscle and soft flesh, until both of them are interlocked at the back of his neck and, with your own pulling, you insist on speeding up, on grinding down harder, on pulling desperate, needy groans from his mouth. Carlos lets you pretend you have control, is merciful in quickening his own movements, and with both your legs straddling his hips, you find yourself thrusting against him harder. You want him to ache with his need for you, want his desire to burn just as yours does, want his hands all over you, inside you, want – 

The scientist flushes, cheeks darkened and the whole of his beautiful chest and neck glistening more than before, but you cannot tell if it is due to the voice softly narrating your story from the ceiling or from the hand you’ve twisted into his hair. You think it rude to ask. 

A hand slides up from your hips, dragging against the fabric of your shirt, mapping you far too gently to be entirely satisfying. There is a caress of fingers against your cheek, intimate and caring and surprising you out of your lust-filled rhythm against his lap. Your brows furrow, strangely moved by his gentleness. There is no obligation for him to care for you. This is nothing but a welding of flesh and carnal desire, nothing but two, lonely souls seeking refuge in a physical manifestation of longing. You do not confuse his concern with the notion of something like love, but it is impossibly sweet regardless, and you feel a smile come to you unbidden, feel your own cheeks burn, feel yourself turning into the palm of his hand, against it, until you realise that the journey his hand has partaken is not complete. 

He slips a thumb into your mouth, past lips reddened by your teeth, against a tongue watering with the notion of being useful. You suck, instinctive and lewd, closing your lips against his finger and your eyes flutter shut as you imagine something that it is something far larger, far heavier, in its stead. 

Carlos’ eyes shut as well, and you hope he is imagining that, too. 

You slow your thrusting only to ensure each drag of hips against his own is more forceful. As you suckle and moan at the invasion in your mouth, you spread your legs wider still, wanting to feel that clothed arousal of his press against you more fully, wishing you could feel its very pulse against your skin. He exhales shakily, mouth parted, and you wonder if, perhaps, he might like to be filled, too – if he also yearns for the taste of you, for a heaviness on his tongue. He whispers a name too quiet to hear, though it does not sound like your own. That’s fair, you suppose, as you never quite did introduce yourself. 

The air you breathe through your nose makes you lighter, but the finger in your mouth and the grip at your waist grounds you so that you, in turn, can grind down, your thighs keeping his own hips still so you can writhe against him exactly as you need. You wish, you _pray_ , to any deity that might listen, that you can turn back time and start this night over because now you have foresight, now you _know_ you’d have shed your clothing before climbing atop this handsome scientist so you might feel his arousal against you. You wonder if each of his heartbeats might cause him to leak, just a little, just for you, from the tip of it. You wonder if he might have let you taste it. You wonder if you’d even have the strength to pull away and change your positions because this, your body atop muscular legs, is such perfection that you dare not risk losing it. 

His completion surprises you, his body tense and arching against yours, his thumb slipping from your lips with a wet, heavy sound so that he can hold onto you, so that he can press his still-clothed arousal between your legs as hard as he can, face twisting and breath catching, and you swear the moon shines brighter, just for him, to accentuate the glow of his release, to frame that beautiful face so you can burn it into your memory – of all the things you will forget in life, you hope the gods will be merciful and leave this image with you. 

Carlos is breathless, boneless, but you still ache for him, though you have stilled to give him time to recover. He smiles eventually, shy and grateful and still a shade darker than usual with embarrassment and relief at once. 

For the first time, he undoes the button and zipper of your pants and slips a hand inside. 

The position is no doubt uncomfortable for him, but you will not last long enough for it to become a painful affair. You both know this for a fact, your heavy breathing having betrayed you, your voice no longer contained by your teeth gripping at your lips hoping to keep your mouth closed and those noises safe within your lungs. His hand is warm and hard and everything you need, and you buck against him, no rhythm to follow, but Carlos is not a musician, so he cares little for that, anyway. 

You gasp and cry out a name that is not _Carlos_ (though it deserves to be), a name drawn from a time you cannot remember, from a face that is only a blur to you. Carlos holds you through it, rubs you through it, until the pressure is too much and your gasps and cries turn pleading. Only then does he pull his hand away. Only then do you both settle against each other, foreheads together, a calmness, completeness, enveloping you like a blanket. 

You thank him with a kiss to his cheek, with a kind hand slipping through his hair, with eyes pulled away to allow him a moment of privacy to pull himself back together. It is then that you see that the starless void outside is not so empty. Though you have little strength for it, your shoulders straighten and you sit taller against the scientist who has orchestrated so much pleasure from your body tonight. 

There, outside the window, is a planet of awesome size, lit by no sun, all thick black forests and jagged mountains and deep, turbulent oceans. 

“Do you see that, Carlos?” you ask, voice thick and sultry but with an excited interest he cannot ignore. He turns his head to look out the window, brows furrowing. 

“See what?” he asks quietly. 

It seems impossible you would not have noticed such beauty before. It is so close, so _very_ close. You feel like maybe, if you reach out, stretch your arm toward the window, fingers pushed as far as they will go, you might even… touch it.

Your smile reflects how fulfilled you truly feel as you try just that.

**Author's Note:**

> Today's proverb: 
> 
> A picture is worth a thousand words. A thought is worth a thousand pictures. An action is worth a thousand thoughts. We're also taking suggestions on how to simplify our current currency.


End file.
